


Why Dig for the Fossils of the Past When You Can See Them While They Still Breathe

by fizzfrenchtoast



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-21 15:59:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzfrenchtoast/pseuds/fizzfrenchtoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a Time Lord takes the moniker "The Archaeologist" and gallivants across existence, picking up companions along the way.</p><p>(the rating may change, the character tags certainly will, as will the relationship tags.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Dig for the Fossils of the Past When You Can See Them While They Still Breathe

The Archaeologist moves through the warehouse, barely able to stumble. When he’d arrived here, hours earlier, he’d been eager to open crates and poke at what was inside, excited about showing the tiny moving parts of the toy robots within to Kttrllrt, and explaining how they work and what they do. Kttrllrt is a child of a world that’s been at war for centuries, and his excitement at the toys matched the Archaeologist’s grin for grin. He’d wanted a toy for his sister, to replace one lost to a recent bombing, so he had wished as hard as he could on the stars above. Evidently the stars were listening, because his plea reached the Archaeologist.

Now, the Archaeologist is alone, Kttrllrt stowed safe at home with his sister and the shiny robotic dog they’d picked out for her; thank all the gods of all the worlds for small mercies; thank the stars that he hadn’t lost there. Now, he’s desperately trying to get back to the part of the warehouse he landed in before the injuries take their toll. Now, he’s racing death to get home.

He limps forward as quickly as he’s able, an agonizingly slow pace. He lurches dangerously to one side or the other on occasion, often coming close to falling. With a hiss he goes rigid for a moment, back stiff and teeth clenched, before collapsing inward and crumpling heavily to the floor.

“Not here”, he grates out, voice strained with effort. He leans against the side of a crate, grasping around for something to pull himself up with, and after a few moments curls his fingers around the edge of it.

“Not NOW”, he says, voice rising close to a shout as he leverages himself into a standing position. His jaw is still clenched, and his expression is one of grim determination. If he has to die and regenerate, then so be it, but he refuses to do so out here on a strange planet in a lonely warehouse.

He stumbles on.

His face lights up as he turns a corner, his grimace shifting to a victorious if strained smile as he spots his goal. It’s large and wooden like every other crate in the warehouse, although it’s slightly taller to accommodate the narrow double doors set into its face.

He lurches across the last stretch of concrete between him and the doors. He’s sparking gold at the edges, and the pain of regeneration is already smoldering in his core. He finds it in himself to give it a final burst of speed so his hearts are pounding loudly in his ears as he makes it to the box, HIS box, his T.A.R.D.I.S.

He fumbles with the key and the lock for what feels like ages, his hands shaking and palms sweating profusely, before finally the lock clicks open and the doors swing inward. The Archaeologist limps forward, leaning heavily against the railing. He’d had the chance to grow old this time, and at first he’d raged against the addition of railings and ramps, insisting that despite his acquired frailty he had no need for them. The T.A.R.D.I.S. had not relented, and he is now profoundly grateful to her for that.

He struggles closer to her console, shaking and sparking more with each foot gained. After pulling himself up to the main platform with the aid of a railing, he slumps against her controls and sighs long and tired before chuckling sadly.

“Looks like this is it, ‘ey girl?” He says, running a hand across the edge of her console fondly.

“It’s been a good adventure, this one. Take care of the next, won’t you?” The T.A.R.D.I.S hums in response. The sparks are more frequent now, and a gold glow has begun to creep up his neck. It won’t be long now.

He sighs again, wistful this time, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly into a sad smile. He stands straight again, or as close to straight as he can with his shoulders and back stooped by age and his whole body racked by pained shudders.

“I think we ought to go on one last jaunt, for old time’s sake. How does the Calliope nebula sound? It has the loveliest colors. As a farewell to me,” His voice is quiet and resigned as he says the last part, reaching for a lever with one hand and turning a knob with the other. He hits buttons without noticing, and knocks into a switch that most certainly should not have been knocked into. The Archaeologist exhales sparks with his next breath, and stumbles backwards, hitting more buttons and switches on the way. He sucks in air quickly, filling his lungs to capacity as his face is overcome by the gold glow of regeneration.

He lets loose a shout, and his arms and head disappear in the fountains of gold light that shoot from them. His story is ending, the final farewells already said, and the universe spins on unaware.

His story ends, but with no one to mourn and no one to miss him, that just leaves room for another story to begin.

The Archaeologist is dead. The Archaeologist is born.

It had been long past time for a change of face anyway.


End file.
